broken blue bird
by Wind Spark
Summary: Dick Grayson looses his legs in a car wreck. Not to the Joker, not in a shooting, but in a car wreck. There's something horribly unfair about that. Includes a bit of Dick/Babs.


He wakes up in a hospital bed. Not in the cave. Not in one of the many nooks and crannies hidden throughout Gotham. Not even in Leslie's clinic. In a hospital bed. In a hospital.

His brain is blurry with drugs, some kind of pain medication which is doing strange things to his brain, his body, but he knows that something is horribly, horribly wrong when he looks up and sees Bruce beside him.

"Dick. How are you feeling?" Bruce is trying to smile and that isn't right. Bruce doesn't do that, he breaks the news and gets it over with, he doesn't try to be nice about it, he's_Batman_.

"Like I'm on some pretty heavy meds. Can't even feel my legs and my hands are all tingley. Think you could pull some strings, get the meds changed? These ones are making the walls change color."

For a few long moment, Bruce doesn't say anything.

"You were in an accident. A bad one."

"It wasn't…"

"No. It wasn't an attack. Just a patch of ice, and the other driver lost control of his van. No foul play."

"Huh," Dick says, settling more comfortably against his pillows and trying to ignore the ache in his skull. "That's a nice change."

"The driver struck you from the side. When the impact occurred, several pieces of iron framework in the back of the other vehicle were flung forward, shattering the windshield and impaling your car. One of them severed your spine."

And that is how Dick Grayson's world ends.

"What?" he asks, and he really doesn't recognize his own voice. It's a dry, choked whisper, echoing across the suddenly cold room.

"I'm sorry. The doctors have assured me that there is too much damage for any type of surgical repair. Your legs… The feeling isn't going to come back."

"Oh." Dick shuts his eyes tight, counts to ten, then to twenty, thirty, prays that he'll wake up, just wake up, it's just a nightmare, he's going to wake up. But he doesn't. He opens his eyes again, to the hospital room, to Bruce's weary, concerned expression.

"Dick? Are you…"

"I'm fine. It's ok, I'm fine. I'm just…" He tries to smile.

But he can't. Because he's never going to fly again.

Dick cries into his father's shirt, knowing that he's ruining thousand dollar Armani. Bruce just pulls him closer, and doesn't say a word.

…

"Wow, think they can fit any more flowers in here?"

It was getting a little ridiculous. Flowers from all the Teen Titans and most of the Justice League had been almost too much, but then Superman had to go and send an entire _car_ full of them. Dick thinks Aquaman even sent an aquarium with some kind of Atlantean sea flowers. They had to open the windows; the mixture of scents was almost suffocating.

"What can I say? The people love me."

Jason snorted with what Dick guessed was amusement. But Jason wouldn't meet his brother's eyes, and had been fidgeting with his coat since he had entered the room.

"Are you alright?"

Another snort.

"Am _I_ alright? Between the two of us, I think I should be the one asking you that question."

"Yeah, but… You're the one who always goes out and beats people up when something happens. But this time there's no one to beat up. And you seem a little… tense."

"You're an idiot, Goldie. Why would I care about you being stupid enough to get yourself in a car wreck?"

"Because I'm _your_ idiot," Dick smiled. "And if you didn't care, you wouldn't be here."

"Dream on, _dick_," Jason muttered. But he didn't disagree.

"It's your job now, you know that right?"

Jason turned away from the wall which was absolutely covered in Amazonian lilies, and glanced back at his older brother, whose expression had suddenly grow serious.

"I mean, I don't really care if you kill people, I'd prefer if you didn't, but the main thing is keeping them safe. Tim, Cass, Steph. Since I'm not going to be… around anymore. They need you. We can't let something happen to them like what happened to…"

Jason shook his head. "I'm not good at that. I'm not good at that older brother shit. There's a reason that's always been your job."

"Nah. You'll be fine. Just watch them? Do me this one favor? Or do I have to tell the nurses that you're bullying a cripple?"

A bark of laughter. A few moments of silence.

"I'll try."

"Okay. Thanks, little wing."

"Shut _up_, Goldie."

…

The first few weeks, he nearly goes crazy. Jumping off the walls, screaming at random noises, twitching like a caffeinated Chihuahua _crazy_.

Dick Grayson is not meant for stillness. He is not meant to be cooped up in the same room for days on end. He is not meant for the cage that is his body, heavy and still and dead and _useless_.

Dick Grayson was born to fly. He was born to _soar_.

He finds himself hanging halfway out of his window on more than one occasion, watching the dust grey pigeons that occupy Gotham with a mixture of mourning and biting jealousy. Which is ridiculous, because they're _birds_.

They keep telling him to just use the chair, but he can't. Using it means that he's admitting defeat. Admitting that something is wrong with him. Admitting that he'll never be Nightwing again. That he'll never be _useful_ again. He's not a computer genius like Babs. He's good, yes, but monitoring for activity, picking out signals, trawling through miles of endless data would drive him even crazier than Bruce in a matter of weeks. He couldn't do it.

It's only when he has the knife pressed against his thigh, blood trickling down his hand and pooling on the carpet that he realizes he needs to do something. _Anything_. He's suffocating, he's dying, and if he has to stay still one more second he's going to lean out of that window and fall, just to feel it again. Feel like he did when he was a child. Feel like he's _free_.

So he does what any grow adult in his situation would do. He delves into his saving, buys a huge, single room apartment with a balcony and floor to ceiling windows. And then he turns it into a literal jungle gym.

His legs may be useless, but he's worked hard for these biceps, thanks very much. And there's really no point of being in this situation if he can't use it as an excuse to have a little fun.

…

Babs comes over every other day to bully him about remembering his physical therapy and to make sure he's eating food other than cereal. And to try out the renovations to his new apartment, which she grudgingly admits are pretty awesome.

"Shoulda had Bruce build something like this for me. I am supremely jealous."

"Don't be," Dick says with a tiny smile. "You're ok now. You get to walk around, fight with Bruce, actually do something good."

The redhead looks at him sharply. "Believe me, the worst thing you can do is start feeling sorry for yourself. You need to find an outlet. The gym is nice, but you know it's only going to alleviate the physical stress. The mental energy is a lot harder to deal with. You could think about…"

"I'm not cut out for the Oracle job. There's just nothing else I can _do_. I can't fight, but I can't sit still, but I need to do something and like this I'm useless."

"Hey." Babs grabs his chin, forcing him to face her. "You're not useless. And you think the Oracle idea just popped into my head? It was months before I could even think about fighting crime in a different way. You're Dick Grayson. You'll think of something."

"Yeah. Yeah, I will." He grins suddenly. "I get it though, now. Why you were so grumpy sometimes. It… grates. I'm sorry I wasn't always understanding."

An hour later, she leans down and kisses him goodbye. He grips her hand until she tugs it gently from his grasp, and when she closes the door the silence settles like a gloomy cloud.

That night he dreams of taking her to the beach, sun warm on bare skin and sand in his toes. His legs collapse when they reach the edge of the water. She swims out into the ocean, her hair, her smile, a beacon on the horizon.

But he can't follow her. He begs her to come back. But she leaves him behind.

…

"You're going to need a new name," Tim called from the apartment's tiny corner kitchen. "You won't need a costume, but you're definitely going to need a new name."

"Yeah, I'm thinking about it," Dick nodded absently, intent on the video game in front of him. "Can't really go by Nightwing anymore. Wings got clipped."

Cass, leaning against his side, also watching intently, nudged his ribs with her elbow. Dick glanced down at her, smiling.

"Did Babs tell you to do that?"

Cass shook her head. "Didn't need to."

"They could call you Hot Wheels. Paraplegic for justice," Steph said as she attempted to ram Dick's car off the track.

"Tim get back in here, you're girlfriend is cheating again!"

"She's not my girlfriend! And do you have anything in here that isn't instant?"

Dick leaned toward Steph, whispering conspiratorially. "He's not your boyfriend? Why is he not your boyfriend?"

Steph smirked in a way that was somehow both angelic and demonic. "Oh, he is. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Anyways, I think they've already got a name for you," Tim called over the sound of clanking dishes.

"They do? Already? What name? Who gave me a name?"

Tim was distracted by food preparations and Steph was doing her level best to murder his virtual ass, so Cass responded, "Jason."

"What?! Jason named me? Who let Jason name me?"

"Oh, yeah," Steph said, "he's been telling his informants to send tips your way, like you asked. He's also been telling them to ask for Goldie, Dickhead, Chatterbox, The Dick Wonder, oh there's one I'm forgetting…"

"I am offended. Deeply, deeply offended. I do not talk that much. The least he could do is come up with some more imaginative ones. And he needs to stop abusing my name, one of these days someone is going to realize he isn't just being an ass."

A groan came from the floor. "I'm lying right here, _dick_," Jason grumbled.

"Yes, you are," Tim snapped, "and you're supposed to be helping me cook, we agreed that since you skipped last week you were going to help the next two weeks, including today."

Jason dragged himself to his feet, muttering under his breath about bitchy baby birds and who needed to eat anyways, he didn't even eat most of the food they made, he had his cigs and coffee, he didn't need anything else.

"Which is why you're going to die before you're fifty. And no smoking in the kitchen!"

Jason grumbled but acquiesced. Dick just grinned. He had known it would work out.

"Oh! Superdick! He called you Superdick!"

…

The thugs of Gotham have developed several cardinal rules over the years.

1. If you see Batman, it's too late. If he's that close, just put down the gun and surrender.

2. When dealing with the crazies, make sure you get paid up front.

3. Don't deal with the crazies unless you absolutely have to, because they are actually crazy and might kill you.

4. Kidnapping Robin is always way more trouble than it's worth.

5. Don't. Touch. Balefire.

Gotham's newest hero is smart, inventive, deadly, despite his disability, and he has a sadistic sense of humor. And if he doesn't take you out, you'll have the entire bat clan on your tail. And the Teen Titans. And the Justice League of America.

Balefire knows everyone. He draws in connections, chats with the populace, forms a twisting network of ever changing information. More difficult to sift through than a computer's feedback, more susceptible to flaws, but also more detailed, more thorough, more _real_. Balefire is good with people. He speaks, and they listen, are drawn in like moths to a flame, or survivors called to a signal fire. He connects them, and he understands them.

To his friends, to his family, he is, as always, the beacon that they circle around. The light that draws them all together. As Robin, as Nightwing, as Balefire, he knows them. Listens to them. Laughs with them.

And in his own way, fights with them. His name does also have connection to funeral pyres. Dick Grayson may be many things, but he is a fighter above all else. And he will fight in whatever way he can.

Right now, however, he's in trouble. The rest of the bat family are on a mission in Bludhaven involving Clayface, Penguin, and the Scarecrow. The Teen Titans and the Justice League are on a mission off planet.

He coughs up a mixture of saliva and blood, running his tongue over a tooth that now feels loose. The moon is shining through his window, the only light illuminating the wreck that used to be his apartment. And really, he should just shut up, but he just had those practice dummies brought in for Cass and Steph to play with and the pictures Tim has been giving him are lying smashed in their frames on the floor and Jason's books are scattered across the room, pages fluttering about like dying birds, and Dick never has been very good at controlling his mouth, especially when he's angry.

"You know it's bad luck to bit a guy in a wheelchair, right? It also makes you look like a first class bastard, but I'm sure you've been called that before."

The comment earns him another blow to the stomach, and if he gets hit again, that rib is snapping and going right through his lung. But it looks like they're done playing, if the nasty looking sword the assassin has just drawn is anything to go by.

The sword is lowered to his throat, the tip ice cold against his burning skin, and then the man draws back, ready to swing downward, and suddenly Dick knows that there's no way out.

He's going to die here.

The sword begins its descent. Time slows down. And then the assassin freezes, chokes, twitches, crumples to the ground, revealing the figure who has just stabbed him in the back.

Dick stares. Swallows.

"Um. Thank you? And who are you?"

The figure steps forward, wiping his own short sword on the assassin's body and then stepping towards the perplexed vigilante.

"Tt. I know it has been some time, but I had hoped that your memory was not so terrible."

And yet again, Dick Grayson's world stops. Stops, tilts, and might as well just drop him into the stratosphere, because he is not capable of dealing with this, it's not possible, he_saw his little brother die_.

"…_Damian_?"

The child (not really a child anymore; it's been almost two years) reaches forward and quickly dismantles the restraints that have kept Dick pinned to the wall. Dick can't help but flinch away from the touch.

"_Damian_?"

Damian frowns down at his older brother's legs.

"I know I have said before that you are utterly useless without me, but I did not expect you to paralyze yourself the moment I left."

"It was a car crash," Dick replies dazedly. "Accident, I was, um, impaled, but I'm ok now. Or I'm better. Damain?"

"Your continuous repetitions of my name will serve absolutely no purpose, Grayson."

"But, you're here. How are you here? I watched you die, I helped bury the body, I-" Dick chokes on his words. He reaches forward, toward the hooded figure.

The boy lets himself be pulled forward, let's Dick pull away the hood, revealing scarred flesh, hair that's barely more than stubble, and the same perfect blue eyes that he remembers like he saw them yesterday.

"Damian," he says, half surprise, half over bright, ridiculous joy, and then he yanks Damian forward, crushes his brother against his chest, ignoring the pain of bruises and cracked ribs. He barely feels it, because Damian, violent, prickly, beautiful Damian is really there. He's right there, stiff and tense in Dick's arms. And then the younger boy melts into his older brother's embrace. Dick doesn't care that he's crying, getting tears and blood all over Damian's hair, because Damian is sniffling a little bit as well, and when Dick feels hot tears against his collarbone he nearly sobs.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispers. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you were hurt. I would have… I would have tried to save you."

Dick hushes him. "That doesn't matter. That doesn't matter at all. You're back now. Damian, you're here, you're really here."

Screw his legs. Screw his legs, his arms, his everything. He doesn't need any of that. His little brother is back. That's all he needs.

Damian's arms squeeze around him, clinging tightly. And Dick holds on just as tightly and smiles. Cries and smiles and holds his brother.

"I missed you," Damian whispers.

"I missed you too, little brother. I missed you too."

* * *

This took me a whole day to write, what the heck C, you can do better than that. And coming up with a new superhero identity was a nightmare and I'm really not happy with it. I'm happy with the ending. And that's about it. I just really need Damian back. Badly.


End file.
